


The Secrets of Copper Country

by on_verra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Children's Literature, Community: spn_j2_bigbang, D/s elements, Dubious Consent, Historical Accuracy, Literary References, M/M, The Secret Garden - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/on_verra/pseuds/on_verra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a tip from an old friend, Sam and Dean take on a case in Copper Country, a remote part of northern Michigan. Stuck for the winter in a grand old estate, isolated from the rest of the world until spring comes, they find themselves taken over by a mysterious force that seems to come from a locked garden on the estate grounds, perpetually in bloom - making them confront harsh truths about themselves, and do things they might not otherwise do. Loosely inspired by <i>The Secret Garden</i>, by Frances Hodgson Burnett. (If you know the novel well, you may be able to pick up loads of references, but it's not necessary in order to follow the story.) Written for SPN J2 Big Bang Challenge 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secrets of Copper Country

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SPN J2 Big Bang Challenge 2010.  
> Please see story notes here: http://on-verra.livejournal.com/4551.html

_Prologue_

There is a place as desolate as it is beautiful. A remote, jagged strip of land jutting out into the treacherous coastline of Lake Superior, the largest body of fresh water in the world. A few roads wrap down along the water, passing villages that were once vital ports of call. Still other roads run closer to the region's small, inland lakes. The scenery here, too, is often stunning where the dense forest line meets the shoreline and quaint vacation cottages sit right on the water.

To the untrained eye, this place may look like any other slice of American life. Its small main streets have seen better days, and most of the inhabitants are poor but proud. Some, with romantic notions about an older way of things, chop their own wood and catch their own fish. Standing firm on their abiding love of the land, they've largely managed to oppose the encroachment of massive warehouse stores and fast food chains from the States below.

A modest amount of tourism helps to sustain an otherwise extremely depressed economy. Snow lovers come for tons of the white stuff; hikers and sailors alight in the brief warmer months. Any visitor will find beauty, to be sure, so long as beauty is all that he or she is looking for.

Once the smokestacks and ramshackle industrial buildings come into view, the eye must give pause. These concrete monoliths disturb the otherwise picturesque setting, and strange, flat beaches of coarse gray-black sand spread out around them. This is an unnatural, unearthly landscape. Nothing grows on the blackened sand.

The Keweenaw, on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan - far from what some still call the World Below - is no longer the lush wilderness that it once was, and often still appears to be. Wandering explorers must be mindful even as they enjoy the fresh cool air, for they will often stumble over ancient tools, piles of poor rock, and abandoned shacks half-reclaimed by the forest. If they aren't careful, they may find themselves falling into some long-forgotten mine shaft, its cover long since rotted through.

Back before words like deindustrialization entered modern consciousness, before the Rust Belt expanded across the Midwest as factories shut their doors and left joblessness, hopelessness, and environmental consequences behind, having stripped both the land and the people of their usefulness; back before all that - older, wilder places have seen their day come and go in the name of progress, in the name of the American Dream.

This is one such place, for this is the land of the king red metal. This is Copper Country. No amount of modern redress can wholly belie the ghosts of what it's seen.

And it is these ghosts, in this place, that bring hunters north in the dead of winter.

*~ *~*

_Part One_

"Come on, baby, just a little more..."

Dean breaks the silence with his murmured endearments to the car, and also breaks Sam's concentration. He'd been staring straight ahead into the oncoming snow, hypnotized, remembering back to when they were kids and he used to imagine that the large snowflakes were stars, and the Impala a starship rushing through the black of space. He is absolutely not about to share this observation with Dean.

"We'll make it, man." Sam's unused voice cracks a little as he speaks. "Should be almost there. Or we can stop at the next motel."

"Yeah, can you read any motel signs in this weather? The snow is taller than you." Dean tries to gesture with one hand, but quickly grabs back onto the steering wheel when the car starts bearing ever so slightly to the left.

"Then at least if we skid off the road, the snowbanks will keep us from falling very far."

"Don't you even joke about that, Sam. If there is even one scratch on this car, so help me God..."

"Well, its a good thing we won't have to drive much after this. Could end up being a total whiteout until spring."

Dean doesn't respond, just sinks a little lower into the seat, keeping his eyes on the road and his speed at a steady 15 miles an hour. The second-hand snow tires they picked up yesterday are struggling audibly against the icy road, making an eerie rubbing sound, like stretching leather. Sam pushes his hair out of his face and starts looking for signs of civilization.

*~ *~*

They end up stopping at a small family-run motel about a mile shy of Calumet, mostly because it's the first place they see with a freshly plowed driveway. They are the only customers, and their host makes friendly small-talk about the weather, all _so-what-brings-you-boys-up-this-way_ charm, as she shows them to their room after they've paid cash. It's got dull wood paneling, and the curtains and bedsheets are stars and stripes. The whole place has a faint chemical smell, like disinfectant disguised as fruit, but it's not bad. At least it's warm and clean.

The woman bids Sam and Dean a goodnight, and offers some advice about where to go snowmobiling in the morning. They manage to thank her convincingly enough, though Sam has trouble keeping a straight face at the thought of Dean dressed for a snowmobile.

There are pink crocheted dolls on corner shelves in the bathroom, and a framed print over the toilet that's got eagles flying around some patriotic aphorism. Sam scans it while he takes a piss, not really taking the words in, and then resolutely looks at the frame instead. It's dusty, with little golden flowers and butterflies on it.

When Sam comes out, Dean's got his duffel open on the floor next to the bed he's chosen, but is still standing fully dressed, staring at the large stuffed deer head mounted on the wall.

"Dude, the eyes. They follow you." Dean sways deliberately from side to side, making the floorboards creak quietly.

"Yeah, yeah, you'll get over it."

"I hate sleeping with dead animals in the room. It's creepy, is what it is."

"Creepier than anything else we've seen recently?" Sam snorts, and bends to turn down his blankets.

"That's different." Dean doesn't elaborate, just squats down to retrieve his toothbrush from the duffel before his turn in the bathroom. He yells out through the open door, over the running tap, "So when and where is the meeting tomorrow?"

Sam thinks about his earlier phone call from Bobby but absently checks the blinking red alarm clock, as if it has the answer, and then yells back.

"Around noon a bit west of here, in a parking lot on Elm Street."

"Ooh, Elm Street..."

"Yes, Dean, like _Nightmare on Elm Street_. You always say that, every Elm Street we see, and it never gets any funnier."

"One, two, Freddy's coming for you." Dean laughs before spitting into the sink. He saunters out and starts changing for bed. "Come on, Robert Englund is hilarious. Have you ever seen any asshole in real life who could pull off the one-liners like that? I mean, they try, but..."

"You may have a point there," says Sam, amused in spite of himself. Leave it to Dean to find something funny in all this mess they've had to deal with in the last couple of years.  
Sam doesn't like to admit it, but he's grateful for Dean's sense of humor, even as he feels guilty for enjoying what he still thinks of as Dean's unhealthy method of coping. Although since Dean hasn't protested much about the fact that they'll be basically stuck in Bumblefuck, Michigan for an extended length of time, Sam figures Dean is getting more comfortable with the idea of settling down and dealing with his shit. And Dean certainly has shit to deal with.

"It's a good thing Freddy ain't real tonight," says Dean, looking boyish as he rubs a knuckle into his eye. "'Cause I need to get some serious shut-eye after that drive."

"Yeah, goodnight." Sam goes to brush his own teeth, and when he returns Dean is already asleep, on his stomach with his head turned away and his arms looped around the bunched-up pillow. Sam watches for a moment, listens to the in-and-out of his brother's breathing, and then settles down to read.

Sam has had trouble falling asleep lately. Once, Dean might have said that it serves him right, fitting punishment for all those times when he waited up for his big brother to fall asleep so that he could go off with Ruby. Which Sam still feels pretty damn horrible about, even though they've both put that phase firmly behind them.

But really, Sam has always had these phases off and on. By now, staying up late is more like a habit, just another of the burdens he's been piling onto himself for more years than he can count. He knows it's not healthy, but if there's anything that truly makes a Winchester, it's a penchant for self-inflicted martyrdom.

Mostly, though, he's just kept awake by too many thoughts rolling around in his mind, disjointed and with all the fucked-up rationality of nightmares. He doesn't talk about it with Dean, doesn't even bother anymore, but he thinks about the world they've managed to save, and all of the normal people in it, and about how every step he takes still seems to bring him even farther from living like one of them. He thinks about his family, about Mom and especially Dad, and about how completely futile his old desire for normality had turned out to be. He contemplates the concepts of destiny and free will, knowing full well that if the world's most learned minds have never managed to come up with a satisfactory answer, then he probably has no hope of being the one to do it.  
He knows he's torturing himself, but he can't help wondering whether his demon-blood taint might still come back to bite him in the ass one day, or if that part of him is well and truly buried now. He can't help wondering what his life will have been for in the end, besides the promise, each morning, of another day with Dean. And most of all, he wonders whether this is enough.

Reading takes his mind off things, of course. Lately, he's taken to rereading some of the old classics that he's never read, or at least never got to finish at his own pace before Dad could move them on to some different school with different reading list. Sam finds it therapeutic to retrace his literary steps like this; there's a reason some books are considered classics.

And besides, no matter how dark the world may get in a novel, at least its not his own doing. Dean isn't the only one who has learned to master the art of avoidance.

After a couple of hours, Sam finally feels himself nodding off and manages to set down his book and put out the light. He drifts into sleep to the combined sounds of Dean's snoring and the wind whipping the snow outside.

*~ *~*

Sam is looking forward to this meeting with a kind of nervous curiosity. Bobby was a bit fuzzy on the details of the hunt, but he'd said that a friend needed help with some kind of estate haunting, and a few months' free room and board - plus a few thousand bucks - might be on the table if Sam and Dean were willing to help fix up the estate in addition to taking out whatever supernatural thing they'd be fighting. Bobby had also suggested, in his usual subtle way, that it would be best if the boys lay low for a while. Time off from more dangerous hunts, no worrying about money or the law. More importantly, no worrying about angels, demons, or anyone else finding them when they don't want to be found. Not even Castiel, though it had been quite some time since he'd disappeared anyway.

Dean had been dubious. "You sure this friend of Bobby's won't sell out our location?"

"Bobby said this was someone we could trust. Since when is that not good enough for you?  
Dean had nodded, point taken. It had been a long hard road to get Dean feeling comfortable with trusting anyone else's instincts again - even Bobby's and especially Sam's - but he'd been a lot better lately.

Now they're sitting in the Impala, engine idling and hands wrapped around the hot cups of coffee that they'd picked up at a gas station near the motel. There's a fine mist of snow in the air outside obscuring the neat brick and stone buildings and the few locals, accustomed to the weather, who are brave enough to go on about their business outside. It's only a couple of minutes before an SUV with tinted windows pulls up next to them on the left. They wait to hear the driver's door slam before making their way out.

"Hello. It's been a long time, boys." She's bundled up in a heavy, hooded wool coat, but there is no mistaking her, and Sam's sure his shock is plain on his face.

"Tamara! Wow, it's so good to see you! We had no idea..." Sam splutters, and holds out a hand. Tamara shakes it warmly, and then does the same with Dean's.

"I'm not sure why Bobby wanted it to be such a surprise, but that man always does have his reasons." She smiles and lifts her hands to push her hood back off her face.

"Wonder why he didn't keep you in the dark, too," says Dean. "Might have figured you wouldn't want us around. Don't know if you've heard, but most other hunters aren't too keen on the Winchesters these days. Not to mention what went down with the old Seven Deadly." _And what happened to your husband_ is left implicit in the air.

Sam shoots him a glance, wondering how he could be so tactless. Luckily, Tamara doesn't seem bothered.

"So I've heard, but I prefer to make up my own mind. Actually, I'm not hunting anymore. Not often, at least. It got to be too much for me, alone. I still help with the odd case here and there, but I suppose I'm a civilian now." She seems amused by this turn of phrase, and there's a moment of awkward silence in which they all just look at each other.

"So, what's the story? Bobby said something about a haunted estate?" Sam shivers and buries his hands in his pockets.

"Right, well, a friend from England recently bought an historic property here. His family owns a few inns and small hotels and he plans to open another one. He's traveling abroad and hired me to come and check on the house for him. The grounds are quite large and the house itself needs a fair amount of straightening out, so I've asked for funds to hire winter caretakers - that would be you two. But that's not what I'm concerned about, or I could have hired locally."

"So, definitely haunted."

"But it's not an ordinary haunting, you see. I'm honestly not sure what it is, but I can't stay long. I've got to get back to Chicago."

"Chicago, huh?" Dean arches an eyebrow, and Sam knows what he's thinking. From the way Tamara starts fidgeting with her gloves, he's pretty sure that she does, too.

"After Isaac was killed, I went to Oak Park. To try to understand why the Sins had targeted the area. I never did learn anything useful, but by the time I decided to give up hunting, I realized that I liked it there. I've got a day job now, and I'm seeing someone. He has children. It's... a good life."

"Well that's great." Dean grins broadly at her, and looks to Sam for agreement. "We're really happy for you!"

"Yeah, good for you, Tamara." He's happy for her, and knows that Dean must be, too. Even so, he can't help noticing that Dean's smile doesn't look entirely genuine.

"Thanks. Now why don't I take you to the house?"

*~ *~*

They follow Tamara in the Impala, and as they get farther and farther from the main road, it feel like they're driving straight into clouds of white. The roads have been plowed - _thank fuck_ \- but they can barely see the back of Tamara's SUV, and Dean's hands are gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles are cracking.

"How far are we supposed to be from the water? Maybe we've gone too far and we're driving out over the ice right now." From the wary tone of his voice, Sam can tell that Dean is only half-joking.

"Relax. She said it was only a dozen miles away and we've driven, what, less than 10?" Sam sighs. It does feel like they've somehow entered an expanse of bleak, frozen ocean, a whiteness that never ends. "She's keeping just barely ahead of us, and the turn-off should be coming soon."

They've been driving up a slight incline, but sure enough it levels off, and Tamara indicates a left onto the hidden drive that she'd spoken of. They drive just a few feet before parking on the shoulder. They'll have to walk the rest of the way until the estate driveway can be cleared.

They tromp through the snow, Tamara leading the way and unlocking the entrance gate and then the old carriage house about 10 yards further in. The snow has died down a little, enough so that Sam can spot the outline of the main house from here, through the bare, icy trees.  
"Dude," Dean slaps Sam lightly on the elbow and whispers, "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again."

Sam actually smirks at that one, which makes Dean elbow him again with a chuckle.  
"We should just shovel from here to the road, get the snow cleared out enough to get the car inside." Dean tilts his head to indicate the carriage house. It's not a bad idea. There's some kind of wooden sled pushed to the back, brittle and ancient, and what looks like a horse stable beyond that, but there's plenty of room for the car and it's relatively warm and dry.

"If you can do that today, I'll pop back round with groceries and whatever else you need," says Tamara, retrieving a couple of heavy shovels from their hooks on the wall. "I've started stocking the kitchen already, but it may be a good long while before the weather changes so we'll have to be sure you have enough supplies. Have you got extra torch batteries in case the power goes out?"

"We can always use more of everything," says Dean with a grin that makes Sam rub his eyes in embarrassment.

"So what else can you tell us about the place? Could give us somewhere to start."

Tamara stamps her boots and leaves the shovels leaning against the door while she locks the carriage house again, handing Sam the keys. "Sure. Let's get walking and I'll tell you what I know."

*~ *~*

The story goes like this.

The Manor, which had earned this nickname because it was built to resemble the traditional homes that dotted the English countryside, was constructed in 1881 by a wealthy industrialist called E. J. Alexander after he'd enlarged his fortune in the nearby copper mines.  
Alexander had chosen this spot of land because it was on a forested ridge about six miles from the eastern shore of the peninsula, thus having outstanding views and features. And as it had already been checked and disregarded as a prospective mining base, there was no danger of further excavation.  
Most of the investors in the Lake Superior mines hadn't even made back what they'd put in, never mind turning a profit, and the few successful ones tended to live back east in New York and New England. Alexander was very unusual in his preference to live at least part of the year near his assets in order to enjoy the solitude and rugged beauty of the area.  
For the most part, only the miners and site managers themselves lived and worked year-round on the Keweenaw, which was a pretty isolated place for a long time, even after they'd started bringing their whole families in. Many of the first miners to emigrate here had come from Cornwall, bringing with them Cornish traditions that still thrive in the region to this day.

The distinctive building style of the Manor had been a gesture of love for Alexander's young bride, Lilian, whom he married in 1880 and brought over from England, where she'd deeply loved her family's old house and gardens. He wanted to give her something similar that she could love here, too, although it would obviously never be the same.

"Let me guess," Dean interrupts as they reached the heavy front doors, "the young bride died mysteriously."

"Uh, no, nothing as clichéd as all that." Tamara winks, and continues.

Alexander liked to go on site visits to his mines, and unfortunately was killed in a machinery accident on one such visit in 1890. Lilian lived on until 1911 when she died of a common fever. She was in her 50s then, and the house passed to her son, who lived in Philadelphia and never came here again. The son died childless in the 1960s and the house was willed to an Historic Trust, but there wasn't much money to maintain it, as the whole region was well beyond depressed by then.

The deed had changed hands a few times, each owner with bigger dreams and bigger disappointments than the last, and with the local government blocking development schemes that might cause damage of any kind. The current owner – Paul, the son of an English hotelier who hoped to impress his father with this new acquisition – bought it for next to nothing, hoping to take advantage of the recent upsurge in tourism to the area by restoring it and turning it into a seasonal luxury inn. Tamara had known Paul as a teenager back in England when their mothers were friendly, and they'd stayed in touch through the years, though they weren't close.

"He's actually in India at the moment, on one of those spiritual retreats that's become quite popular," says Tamara with a hint of mockery as they enter the dim front hallway.

"'Finding himself', huh?" Dean's tone is sardonic, and he makes a face and elbows Sam. "Hey, sounds like something you would love, Hippie Boy."

"Shut it, Dean." Sam hates it when his brother baits him, but can't help rolling his eyes, at least. Even though it will go unnoticed.

Over the years, all sorts of rumors had taken hold that reinvented the Manor and its grounds as cursed. Most of the stories were blatantly untrue - the kind made up by local teenagers with nothing better to do than frighten themselves. There was one that had Alexander dying in a shipwreck in Keweenaw Bay, doomed to forever haunt the icy waters, and another that had him down as a serial wife-murderer akin to Bluebeard. There was one about an early group of prospectors who died during some exploratory mining operations in what later became the estate gardens. In one version, they'd turned cannibal during a particularly brutal winter.

Some of those last rumors might very well turn out to contain some kernels of truth, but no one has yet done the research.

Sam nearly trips into Dean as their eyes adjust to the dark. Tamara leads them on toward the back of the hall, beyond a grand staircase, and finally flicks on the lights.

*~ *~*

From outside, the house had looked ominous and disheveled, all thick gray stone, and massive doors studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron bars. There were bars on some of the windows, too. The Manor was wider than it was tall, rambling along around a three-sided courtyard before drawing the eye across the horizon. The many-chimneyed roof, where it could be seen peeking out from its a blanket of snow, was the pale mint color of verdigris, all native copper too long exposed to water and air. It matched the few statues in the yard, only their heads and arms poking out of the snow like the flailing limbs of drowning sailors.

Inside, the house is all dark wood, heavy carpeting and ornately carved furniture. It's remarkably well-preserved considering how long it's been sitting empty.

"Wow. Somebody really went all out on this place." Dean's voice booms in the stillness of the hall.

"Somebody still is," says Tamara. "You wouldn't believe the amount of money that's being put in to bring it up to code. You should have seen it last summer."

"So, all of this was just redone?" Sam watches Dean pace around the foyer, taking in details.

"No, no, it's all original. Hard to believe it hasn't been looted over the years, but Lilian Alexander... well, she went a bit potty and had it locked down like a fortress a few years before she died. Afterward, no one came in until the early '70s, when the main drive was paved and the Historic Trust was wiring for electricity."

"So there is electricity?"

"Only in the kitchen here." Tamara gestures to a door next to the light switch she'd flipped. "And in a few other rooms nearby that were meant to be offices. Heating, as well. So unless you stick to this part of the house, I'm afraid you'll have to use extension cords and hope you don't blow a fuse. There are a few old oil lamps lying about, as well, and there's plenty of natural light during the day."

Dean is still wandering near the bottom of the staircase, running his hands along the paneling and the large metallic finials on the banisters. He comes back toward Sam, clapping his palms together in a cloud of black dust that makes them all cough. "It's fucking filthy in here. But otherwise not a bad set-up, huh?"

Tamara shoots him an annoyed glare, coughs again and clears her throat. "The walls are built from a special kind of dolomite stone that is naturally water-resistant. Apart from a few rooms upstairs that we found with minor cracks along the ceilings and window frames, and some flooding in the storage cellars, the whole house is sealed. Even when it gets cold, the humidity stays fairly constant as long as the windows are closed. Apparently that's why all the artwork and furniture are practically worthy of a museum."

"That's funny, because you sound like a museum guide right now."

"Yeah, sorry. There's just a lot to take in. I do wonder, though, if the condition of this place is entirely natural. There maybe something else sealing it off, keeping it so close to pristine. In any case, everything just needs a good cleaning, which you two can help with. That's your 'official' reason for being here, as far as Paul is concerned. I've brought in some new bedding and linens, though. And there's a working bathroom with a shower. You'll be alright."

"We've had worse." Sam deadpans, and kicks lightly at the baseboard closest to his feet. "But, well, you still haven't told us... I mean, what are we really here to do?"

Dean stands beside him now, and they both turn to Tamara with similar quizzical expressions. Sam can see past her, down into a long hallway beyond the staircase, where muted daylight is filtering in from the few open doorways. Tamara tracks his gaze and motions with a quick nod of her head.

"Come on, I'll show you down the east wing first."

*~ *~*

The workmen who had been sent to assess the property last summer had only opened a few of the rooms, and most of those had been unlocked to start with. No one had wanted to pry the remaining doors too forcibly, in case they caused damages. But then, no one had cared enough to keep exploring what they assumed would be more of the same, over and over: more bedrooms, parlors, and libraries, just like the rooms that they'd already seen. A house with a hundred rooms nearly all shut up - a house standing on what feels like the edge of the world - did not make for a warm welcome, and everyone preferred to make their basic estimates and leave as quickly as possible.

But the real reason that no one had wanted to spend extra time in the house, or so the story goes, was because of the low, creepy feeling that came on with increasing intensity each time they came here. These were clean-cut assayers and big tough construction workers, and not one of them would come right out and use the word, but it was clear they all believed that the Manor was haunted. The most expressive among them had described the feeling as if the good mood in which they'd arrived to work, at that beautiful time of year, was being drained out of them by some strange, unnatural force.

"Oh my god, Dementors are real!" Dean is all mock-horror, clutching at Sam's shirt.

"That's real cute, Dean." Sam groans and rolls his eyes again.

"Funny, but the idea really isn't all that far off. I speak from my own experience. I'm glad I haven't been able to come back here in a while, apart from stocking your supplies the other day. You two, you - " Tamara trails off. She pauses in front of another pair of thick double doors, and fiddles with the keys in her hand.

"You two have seen me at my worst, and I think I can be completely honest with you. A lot of time has gone by since Isaac, and even more since our daughter died. I've gotten over it, as much as anyone can. But when I come here, I feel this... overwhelming sense of guilt. And emptiness. Like all the good memories I have, and all the good things in my life now don't mean anything, and I'm left with nothing but the bad parts. And I know it isn't just me, or some sort of coincidence, because as soon as I leave the property, it stops. It just stops, suddenly, and everything goes back to normal again."

"Well. That's weird," says Sam. As Tamara spoke, a chill had settled over him, more than could be accounted for by the cold. He feels... spooked, feels hollow places in his chest and in the back of his mind, telling him that being here will not end well.

"Could just be a ghost with a really nasty attitude problem." Dean reaches out and touches Tamara's elbow for a moment. "Nothing we can't handle."

"I've taken out a lot of ghosts, and I've never felt anything quite like this." Tamara fixes them with a piercing glare. "Look, I don't put much faith in hearsay when it comes to other hunters, but you two were raised in the life. And Bobby did fill me in on what's happened. Come on, Hell? Lucifer? Frankly, after what you've been through, you may be the only ones who can withstand staying here."

It's a pretty back-handed compliment. Sam shifts his weight, and Dean smiles nervously. He might be grinding his teeth. "Aw shucks, that's us. The last resort."

Tamara sighs, selects one of the larger keys on the ring, and starts to unfasten the doors behind her. The enter a very dark room, just a tiny bit of light seeping in from small windows near the ceiling. The walls are lined on all sides with glass-fronted cabinets full of books, paintings of ominous-looking old men, and ancient photographs. Sam peers down for a closer look at some of the captions. _Copper Harbour, 1872_. _Stamp Mill on Portage Lake, 1877_. _A.C. Alexander, 1855_.

There are a few chairs covered in crackling brown leather, and the carpet puffs out big clouds of dust with every step. On the mantel, on the desk, and on top of each cabinet, there are small sculptures and household objects all made of copper, their shine darkened and dulled by the years. A nugget rests as a paperweight on a large open book. The text is obscured by a thick layer of grime that Sam wipes away with the hem of his coat sleeve. _A Practical Treatise on the Extraction of Copper Ore for Use in..._

"So this is the library, obviously."

"What's with all the copper, do you think?" Dean shuffles up to read over Sam's shoulder. "I get that it's how these people made their money, but jeez."

"Yeah, it's really all over the house. It's kind of... ostentatious."

"A lot of people believe that copper has mystical properties," Tamara chimes in, still standing in the doorway. "Maybe it was meant to be some kind of protection, like a good luck charm."

"Or maybe he just liked showing off the fruits of his investment," suggests Sam.

"I've had a look 'round and you might get some use out of this library. There's a lot of local and English history, and gardening and the like, but I also found a few occult texts. Nothing major, but there could be more."

"Hoho! So dude _did_ get into something mystical!"

"Looks like. But you haven't seen the strangest thing yet. Come on, let's go upstairs."

*~ *~*

On the third floor of the house, there are bedrooms and a sitting room that once made up the servants' quarters. The original idea had been to have a large contingent during the warmer months, when the doors and windows could be kept open for fresh air, parties could be thrown, and all sorts of fruits and vegetables could be grown, harvested and prepared for the winter supply pantries. However, the parties ended after old Alexander died, and once junior had grown up and moved away, there wasn't much left for a house full of servants to do. So they had all moved on as well - to other jobs, to full-time motherhood, or away from the Keweenaw altogether. Only a gardener and a few consecutive cooks and housekeepers had stayed on until 1911.

Tamara leads Sam and Dean to the northernmost end of the servants' quarters, not stopping until she reaches a large window at the end of the hall. A patch of glass has been cleaned recently, and through it Sam can see a crystal clear sky. The snow has stopped completely now.

"Tell me what you see," says Tamara.

Sam moves over to let Dean have a better angle, and they stand together, peering out at the view stretched over the gardens and beyond, toward the white forest. The gardens begin just a few yards from the house, a few tall evergreen hedges and other shrubberies visible over the snow, and then a series of high stone walls.

"Is it a labyrinth or something?"

"Or something. Look."

Sam counts the snow-capped walls, which had probably once held gardens. The trees inside are growing every which way, some of their branches beginning to split the stone walls apart. All the way at the back, between the walls closest to the forest, there is a dense patch of bright green, like a spot of emerald in all the whiteness.

"Wait - "

"Why is it -"

"Green. That last garden is bright green like it's bloody spring. I wouldn't even have noticed if I hadn't come up to check a leak. And look how the snow is piled all around outside. No one can have gotten in there."

"Weird." Sam's stomach starts to drop again.

"Yeah. And I'll tell you from last summer - no one can _get_ in there, because no one can find the door."

A beat of silence, and then Dean points through the windowpane.

"So," he says, leaving a single black spot on the glass. "You think the freaky mojo comes from inside that locked garden."

Sam looks out again, and sees the landscape through the whorl of Dean's fingerprint.

*~ *~*

Sam and Dean clear a path from the road to the carriage house, while Tamara brings more canned goods and batteries and things into the house.

They work in silence, glancing occasionally up at the sky, which is threatening heavy snow once again. The sun will be setting soon, and now that they're alone Sam thinks this is as good a time as any to talk to his brother.

"Hey," he gets out slowly. "Are you sure we should do this? You, uh, you're not gonna go stir crazy?"

Dean doesn't pause from breaking up a chunk of ice with the hard metal blade of his shovel. "I thought you wanted to get off the grid. This is perfect."

"No, yeah. I do. It's just, you heard what she said about how this place gets to people, twists them up inside."

"Well you're already pretty twisted, so it's all good."

"I'm serious, Dean. What if -"

"Sam." Dean does pause now, using the flat of his palm to balance the shovel on its point. "It's not like we haven't had our minds fucked with before, and by a lot worse than a fucking haunted house. Besides, we owe it to Tamara. And Bobby."

For a long moment, they just stare at each other. And then a clump of snow falls from a low-hanging branch and lands directly on Sam's head.

"Hah," says Dean, helpfully.

*~ *~*

"Alright then. I'll be back in a month or so." Tamara leans against her minivan as the engine warms up. "Your won't be able to use your mobiles out here, but if you've got any major problems you can always head back into town."

"Will do. You get home safe." Dean looks as if he's not sure whether to move in for a hug or a handshake, and so does nothing. His face is flushed from the cold and the exertion of shoveling, and Sam figures he himself is just about the same shade of red.

"Can you let Bobby know we're here, that we're on it?" Sam wishes they could call Bobby right now, but as predicted, there's no signal.

"I will." Tamara slams the door and rolls her window down halfway, her expression going abruptly serious. "Good luck."

Sam stands and watches her head off into the sunset before following Dean back toward the lit Manor doors. They take the shovels with them, and clear haphazard pathways around the front courtyard before the snow hits.

 

_Part Two_

At first each day that passes by is exactly like the others. Every morning Sam wakes up in a tapestried room at the top of the grand staircase, right next door to Dean's room. Every morning he takes a shower in the only bathroom with indoor plumbing. He always gets second shower after Dean, and sometimes he can beat one off before the hot water runs out, but sometimes not.

He knows that Dean is probably doing the same and is slightly annoyed by the lack of consideration, but it would be way too weird to discuss. That is not a conversation that Sam wants to have. Maybe he should try to get first shower and stay in for a long time, just to prove his point, but he isn't that passive-aggressive. Besides, its not like he wants Dean thinking his masturbation habits are being scrutinized in detail... _Oh god_ , Sam should really try not to think about this anymore, and just take what he can get. It's not that big a deal, and it's not like he can't do it some other time if the urge strikes.

Every morning he and Dean eat breakfast together in the kitchen; and after each breakfast Sam gazes out of the window into the snow, which seems to spread out on all sides and climb up to the sky.

It's a bit strange not to be sharing a bedroom, but Dean hasn't mentioned it and Sam's not about to be the first one. Sam is still suffering from insomnia, but at least it helps that he can hear Dean moving around at night in the room he's claimed just across the hall. It seems like Dean has been keeping some intentional distance between them since they arrived, but perhaps it's just a harmless symptom of the solitude that comes with being snowed in. It's easy to get lost inside your own head.

While they eat, they discuss what they plan to do with themselves. There is little talk of going outside, and there is no talk at all as to whether either of them is feeling the promised ill effects of the Manor. Sam isn't sure whether that's a good sign, since Dean would probably never bring it up on his own anyway, but he doesn't want to push.

Dean has claimed responsibility for cleaning out the cellars and patching the third-floor ceilings, with the instructions and gear that Tamara left behind. He doesn't have much experience with home repair, but waves off Sam's misgivings with a quick "How hard can it be?"

For his part, Sam takes on exploring the rest of the house. He knows he should spend some time in the library, but he can't help wondering about all the other closed doors, and so he goes about systematically opening each one, with a lock pick in one hand and a flashlight in the other. Each long corridor seems to branch out into other corridors, and some lead up short flights of steps which mount to others again. There are doors, and doors, and there are paintings and photographs on the walls. Sometimes they are old and European-looking, probably old family portraits from England, but mostly they are more Keweenaw curiosities. Maps, landscapes, group shots of miners and other local folk, diagrams of mining paraphernalia. At one point, Sam finds himself in a long gallery covered in this stuff. He walks along slowly, pausing in front of each image to stare at the faces of long-dead miners and pioneers. They seem to stare back, as if wondering what Sam Winchester is doing in their house.

Even though Dean is hanging around somewhere, it seems to Sam as if there is no one in all the huge rambling house but his own self.

Sam can't help thinking about how strange it is that people could live in such opulent mansions, and how, stranger still, someone would try to replicate a wealthy Old World lifestyle in a place like this. He remembers back when he was a kid and wanted nothing more than to stay put in a simple home of his own, never imagining that a home could be like this. It wasn't until he'd made friends at Stanford, and until encountering cases like that one back in Connecticut - back at that haunted inn, where the little girl nearly drowned a few years ago - that he learned people in America could have homes like this one. He hopes that the rich appreciate what they have, but he seriously doubts it. This train of thought makes him angry, so he tries to let it go.

The next room he tries takes a while to open, because the door has been painted shut from the outside. He gets it eventually; one last big push, and he plows into a big bedroom with embroidered hangings and animal skins on the walls. Two very broad windows look out toward the front drive, and between them is a deer head that reminds Sam of their last motel. There aren't any copper trinkets around, but over the mantel there is another portrait. This one is of a stiff, plain little boy. Alexander's son, maybe. Sam guesses that this was his room, and that it was painted shut after he grew up and left his mother behind. This thought makes Sam angry, too.

After that, he opens more doors and more. He sees so many rooms that he thinks there must really be a hundred, though he hasn't been counting. In one room he finds walls lined with deep wardrobes that open to reveal all kinds of suits and coats, gowns and dresses, cloaks and gloves and hats. In another he finds a collection of dried flowers, some in vases and some still hanging upside-down from the walls and ceilings on pieces of twine tied to copper hooks. The floor is strewn with petals that flutter when he enters and remind him of a snow globe, or a tornado. He thinks he can still smell roses, though it might only be the power of suggestion.

In another room, which looks like a lady's sitting-room or something, the hangings on the wall are all embroidered velvet, and in a mirror-backed cabinet there are dozens of little figurines made with varying amounts of copper. The craftsmanship is impressive, the tiny people and animals done in great detail.  
Sam smiles to himself at the most charming one – it's a little girl feeding an elephant, her delicate arm outstretched toward its curved trunk, connected by the thinnest sliver of copper. Sam opens the cabinet and reaches in to touch it.

As his fingers close around it, a bolt of cold shoots through Sam almost like a current. For a split second, it feels like he can't open his hand to put the thing back down. It must be a trick of the light, gone before he even registers what he thinks he's seeing, but it looks like, like - just for that second - like there's a dark, greenish verdigris tinge spreading across his palm, across the back of his hand and up his forearm. Before he can panic, it's gone, and he replaces the figurine as his heartbeat stutters back to normal.  
Sam remembers instantly the last time he saw a darkness spreading across his skin and through his veins like that. He holds himself completely still for a moment, just looking at his reflection in the mirrored cabinet. Now he's even less sure if he's just experienced a legitimate event, if it was just an illusion, or if the house has finally decided to start fucking with him. With his weak spots.

Well, that is not cool.

Sam resolves to find Dean. Two or three times he loses his way by turning down the wrong corridor and is obliged to roam around until he finds the right one, but as he reaches what he thinks is ground level, he is some distance from where he thought he would emerge and does not know exactly where he is. It's while he's just standing there that the silence is broken by a mournful sound. It's distant and muffled through the walls, but it sounds like someone crying.

He takes a couple of furtive steps, edging along the hall with his hands skimming the tapestries, and then springs away, startled. One panel of tapestry was the covering of a door which falls open, revealing another part of the corridor behind it. At the far end, there is Dean, stalking forward with his jeans soaked to the knees in dirty water and a very upset expression on his face.

"Hey! Dean!"

Dean jolts and looks up at the sound of his brother's voice, his expression turning to a harsh scowl. The collar of his shirt is askew. "Dude, you scared the crap out of me!"

"Sorry, I didn't know you'd be here. I was coming to find you." Sam's voice is nearly a whisper, though he isn't sure why. "Did - did you just hear something weird, like someone crying?"

Dean's face goes blank. "No man, I didn't hear anything. Just the wind outside. Now lemme go change before dinner. I'm fucking freezing."

"Uh, yeah, sure. I'll come with you. I'm still trying to get my bearings in this place."

"Aw, little Sammy, are you lost?"

"Come on, it's like a maze! You try wandering around all day."

"Maybe later. First, I wanna finish the basement." Dean tilts his head and points a finger downward toward the cellars for emphasis, then shivers and rubs his hands on his thighs. "Did you eat lunch today? I didn't and I'm starving. Let's go cook us a couple of steaks."

And so Dean leads Sam back to the warm core of the house.

*~ *~*

A couple of nights later, Sam is in the library. He's rigged up an extension cord with some kind of flood light, and it rests on a stool near the doors, brightening the whole room with high-wattage neon. It's well after midnight, and Dean has already gone to bed.

Sam's been reading up on local history, most of which is related to the copper industry. All of the books here are contemporaneous with the mining era, and he's sure that if he could get onto the internet, or to a modern library, he'd be able to find out a lot more about the history of the area and about the Alexander family. He takes notes to that effect on one of the yellow legal pads he dug out from the trunk of the car.

In the meantime, he's learning way more that he will ever need to know about the properties and uses of copper, mostly just to keep his mind occupied, but he's also reading up on traditional English gardening, trying to figure out what could be going on out back. He also found some faded, hand-drawn illustrations of the Manor and its grounds.

Earlier, he had gone back upstairs to the servants' quarters to find that first viewpoint again. Dean's dirty fingerprint on the glass was still as clear as if it had been etched there, and somehow Sam didn't want to disturb it as he stared out again toward that bizarrely verdant place. It was proof that they had been in that spot before, with Tamara. That she - that _other people_ \- still existed in the world, and had only recently walked and breathed here.

The solitude is obviously taking its toll on him, that's all. But he can shake it off; he's got work to do.

For now, Sam just scans the library cabinets again, looking for the occult texts that Tamara mentioned. No dark works jump out at him, but he does find a shelf filled with 19th century theosophical and spiritualist titles, and below it a group of early psychology books, many of which are in German. He really should brush up on his German.

He has a feeling that if only he could pull together all of the bits and pieces that he already knows, he could figure out the mystery of the Manor and its gardens and the strange effects they have on people. There's something missing, some piece of the puzzle that he sets his mind to finding. He hasn't bothered bringing this up with his brother, because he doesn't think Dean will have anything insightful to say.

He needs to figure this out on his own.

Thinking about the strange effect the Manor is supposed to have on people - _affect_ , even, if his old SAT prep memory serves - Sam is pretty sure he's dodged that bullet so far. He hasn't noticed anything weird since what he's calling the Figurine Incident, about which he's decided not to tell Dean. If it wasn't real, it isn't any of Dean's business. He's kind of annoyed with Dean, actually, at Dean's continued distance, at the way Dean disappears into his own room each night, even though they still eat meals together every day, and sometimes ask each other for help with repair work and heavy lifting. Sam did try to mention this problem at dinner once, but Dean only said that he was enjoying the quiet for a change. Sam didn't feel like arguing with that.

Sam retrieves a new stack of books – transcendentalism, this time - and brings them over to the desk, dropping them down with a dull thud.

From elsewhere in the house, there comes an echoing thud. Sam glances first at the ceiling, and then the walls and the parquet floor when it happens again. The thud is followed by a wailing cry, muffled just as it was last time. He can't tell where it's coming from. The paneling and tapestries in this house don't make for great acoustics.

"What the hell _is_ that?" Sam mumbles aloud to himself. He tries to freeze in place and listen carefully, but the cry does not come again.

Sam doesn't go to bed for a few more hours. He knows he won't sleep, so there's no point in trying.

*~ *~*

Breakfast the next day is warm instant oatmeal for Sam, while Dean fries the last of the fresh eggs.

"Looks like we're starting on canned beans tomorrow," says Dean as he slides his empty, yellow-spattered plate a few inches up the table.

"I told you, man. Should have rationed better."

Dean flips him the bird. "Beans, beans, the magical fruit..."

"And the serenade that comes with them? Oh my god, I have never been happier that I have my own room."

"Don't be like that, you know you love my funky style." Dean chugs back the last of his coffee.

Sam ignores his brother's juvenile humor in favor of looking out of what's become his usual tableside window. He notices that not only has the snow stopped, but it's shaping up to be a rather beautiful day. It's still below freezing, but the sun is strong enough that he can see water running in rivulets down the outer windowsills as the ice melts.

"Hey, maybe we should go outside today, do a once-around."

Dean shakes his head and stands to take away the dirty dishes. "Nah, I don't really feel like it. There's still too much snow. And I need to get back downstairs."

Sam eyes him warily. "Are you sure you don't need help? What is there left to do?"

"I'm restacking the old dry crates now that the water's been pumped out of the wine cellar, and taking out the rotten ones. But don't worry about it, I'm almost done anyway. Just hit the books."

"Okay... but you'll tell me if - "

"Seriously, don't worry about it." Dean looks at Sam over his shoulder and waves a soapy hand in the air before turning back to the sink. "Man, it's too bad there's nothing drinkable down there. What I would give for a bottle of Jack..."

"Well, I think I'm gonna go outside later. Come find me if you change your mind."

"Yes, sir!" Dean turns again and mock-salutes him, then nods firmly with his jaw set. His eyes don't quite meet Sam's, instead focusing somewhere a little off to the side.

Sam is halfway down the hall before it occurs to him that there was something slightly off about Dean this morning, something that Sam can't quite put his finger on. It's like Dean was... trying just a little too hard to act normal, and the impression was magnified by that last exchange. He turns hard on the ball of his foot and heads back to the kitchen, but Dean has already gone, leaving only a rumpled dish towel across the back of his chair.

*~ *~*

Sam's not sure whether he'll need a shovel or if he can just trudge through the snow, but he grabs one anyway before heading around back, taking the long way around the perimeter of the house. He has to walk out a few yards first, to where the snow isn't as deep as the drifts that abut the building as if helping to hold it upright.

As he walks on, he can feel the snow getting softer and wetter. The sun has done its work, especially on the eastern side. He scans the façade of the house to get his bearings, wonders idly which of the windows belong to which of the rooms he's opened.

As the rear yard comes into view, his steps start to sink further into the slush, down to where he thinks he's hitting ground. If this weather holds, it may not be long before all of the snow is gone. Hopefully it won't cause more flooding as it melts.

Sam scrapes off a long stone bench and sits down for a minute, enjoying the fresh air. A breeze blows powdery snow out of the hedges, and across what look like cider apple trees aligned to make a small orchard. There were probably all kinds of vegetable and fruit gardens planted here at one point, as well as flower gardens. Sam wonders if any of them will still produce. The orchard bodes well - there are some frozen, shriveled apples still clinging on.

Getting up and circling around a defunct stone fountain topped with a corroded copper dancing girl, Sam pushes through a gap in the shrubbery and follows what seems to be a pathway leading to the walled gardens. He imagines what this all must have looked like when the Manor was new. Probably not much different than the illustrations he'd seen in the library.

The snow is more solid here, crunching and compressing just a few inches under his boots as he comes to the first corner of wall. He can see, half-revealed, a wild curtain of vines spreading and weaving their way across the stone. The walls seem to be made of what the he's learned is called poor rock - leftover chunks of mined rock that have been stripped of their mineral wealth. Even here, then, the Alexanders had been mindful of recycling their material resources. Sam is kind of impressed.

Soon he reaches a door in the wall, which stands open on rusty hinges. It leads into the first garden, and on the adjacent wall there is another door leading into the next. Each walled garden seems to open into another, at least through the first four spaces that Sam can see. He presses on until he comes to another door, which is closed. A faint hope arises that the door won't open, that he's found a door to the mysterious green garden, one that's been somehow overlooked. But the door opens with only a little resistance from the snow and the complaining joints, and Sam finds himself in just another plain white square.

At the far end, however, is another wall, this one without any door to be seen. There's nothing special about the wall itself, except perhaps that it has less ice on it than the others he's passed. Sam runs a hand across the stones, their sharp edges worn away, and it comes away wet, but not cold. He can hear birdsong, and thinks it must be coming from over the wall. It's almost as if the birds there are calling to him. He can see the bright green tops of trees above the wall, and they are... resplendent. Sam thinks that's a great word, and he says it aloud to himself.

Sam stalks purposefully back the way he came, getting through all of the gardens in quick succession. Exiting the main door, he follows the walls all the way to the farthest point, making a circuit around the back of the secret garden, between the wall and the forest beyond. Some of the trees come right up the wall, and Sam has to go around them. The forest is a patchwork of dark and light, tall evergreens interspersed with bare cedar and birch, and he's enveloped by that familiar woodsy rot smell that all forests share.

He doesn't find any door. In fact it's almost as if the wall itself has grown taller, morphing, trying to keep him out.

"Dammit!" Sam throws the shovel down as he reaches the main garden door again, right back where he started. His exclamation echoes back to him, and setting off a group of black birds that whoosh out from within the walls, cross over the yard, and disappear.

*~ *~*

"I'm telling you, it was weird."

They're in a small parlor behind the kitchen, one of the rooms that was meant to become an office in the '70s. Dean has discovered an old turntable that some bored soul must have brought in back then. The needle is pristine and the motor still runs, with a little manual boost. There's a box of records, and none of them date past 1972. Dean is in classic rock heaven, feet up on an ottoman and arms crossed behind his head, while Sam paces back and forth and tells him about the garden walk.

"Eh, we knew that already, dude," says Dean, a little too noncommittally for Sam's liking.

"I don't know why you can't take this more seriously."

"Believe me, Sam. I wanna run through your wicked garden." Dean puts a hand over his heart and grins sagely at his own joke. He waits a beat for Sam's inevitable groan, and then looks disappointed when it doesn't come. "Of course I take it seriously, I just - I don't know why you're making such a big deal. I mean, we're gonna be stuck here for a while anyway, so we might as well wait until spring before we go dicking around outside."

Sam stops the record, the needle bouncing once against the vinyl with a scratchy pop.

"Hey, what'd Deep Purple ever do to you?"

"Will you just listen to me? I think you're avoiding the issue here." Sam can feel his pulse speeding up but he can't seem to calm himself. "What else is new?"

"Oh come on, Sam. I'm going just as stir crazy as you are. So I'm trying to relax." Dean glances at the hissing turntable and his tone goes nasty. "Which is obviously working out real well."

"Well, I guess I'll just leave you alone then." Sam's voice is crisp and cold as ice as he rushes out of the room.

Sam doesn't need Dean to understand, and he doesn't need Dean's help. He can handle this himself. He's got everything under control.

*~ *~*

Sam goes outside every day after that. Sometimes he doesn't bother meeting Dean for breakfast, and sometimes he doesn't even shower. He just pulls on some clothes and heads right for the door. The cold air stirs his blood, makes him stronger.

Each day the snow thaws more and more, soaking everything until the gardens feel more like marshes and Sam's explorations leave his legs caked in mud. He's becoming a little obsessed, losing track of time as he goes around and around the garden walls. He's sure that he's missing something, and he's just as sure that he'll find it.

Slowly, the other gardens start to awaken, in that primitive way that gardens do when they've been left to run wild from lack of care. There's a pale green haze everywhere, helping to soften the drab grays and bright whites, though still nothing like what's in the locked garden, which taunts Sam at every turn. He leans against that wall, feeling a pulsating warmth against his shoulders, and stares back at the house.

Somehow the Manor looks worse now, even more imposing and gray than it appeared in the deep winter. It reminds him of a derelict mental hospital, or maybe a prison. He pictures Dean cooped up in there somewhere, alone and doing who knows what. It kind of unsettles him.

In fact, he realizes with a surge of adrenaline, it may even unsettle him more than not finding the door into the secret garden.

He tears himself away from the wall and makes a beeline for the house.

*~ *~*

Sam looks for Dean everywhere. He checks the bedrooms, the kitchen and parlor, the third floor. The house is eerily quiet, with no sign of his brother. Eventually Sam retraces his old route, following the tapestries and searching for the covered corridor that leads to the basement stairway. He pauses at the top of the stairs, listening for movement.

What he hears, once again, is that muffled sobbing sound. He inches slowly down the rough stone steps. He is silent as the grave, just like his childhood training taught him. When he reaches the bottom, it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. What he sees when they do is Dean. Dean, sitting on the floor in the corner, crying with his head in his hands.

Sam breathes in sharply, and Dean's head jerks up. His mouth opens as if he's about to say something, to yell at Sam for sneaking around and finding him like this. Instead he says nothing. As if whatever he could say is already too obvious for words.

So. The crying was Dean. The whole time, just Dean. This is what he's been doing with himself all day.

"Dean."

His brother just gapes at him as if he's looking at a particularly impressive ghost.

"Dean, you need to get out of this basement."

"I - I can't." The voice that comes out is weak and trembling. "I have to - I should be here."

Sam doesn't feel much sympathy, but instead... something else. Something far more selfish and dark that coils like a snake, low in his gut like sadistic lust.

"You should be here. In the basement," says Sam, voice flat and incredulous. "Well if you really think you deserve to be in the basement, then maybe you do."

Dean's eyes widen.

"I mean, really. What good are you anywhere else? Poor Dean."

Sam feels almost disembodied, hysterical. He hears himself distantly, like he can't stop what comes out of his mouth. But he doesn't want to. It's gratifying, the effect he's having here. The power.

Dean levers himself up, one hand on a piece of copper piping that sticks out from the wall, where ancient corrosion stains have made a dry puddle of green in the shadows. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam thinks he sees a creeping darkness traveling up his brother's arm, but when he looks directly at it there's nothing there. Just Dean's bare hands hanging in fists at his sides, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Sam's mind flashes briefly through other memories of Dean's hands, strong and capable with a gun. Dean's hands, gentle on his hot forehead when they were kids. Dean's hands, bound at the wrist and draining of color during a hunt gone wrong.

"You're so sensitive, Dean. And scared. What are you so scared of, huh?"

"I'm not..."

"Yeah, right," Sam snorts. "Underneath all your bullshit posturing, deep down you're always so scared. I always did say you were overcompensating."

"Fuck you."

"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you..."

Deans eyes go even wider at that, and he splutters helplessly. It's almost comical. But Sam's not done.

"Because you need someone to tell you what to do. You pretend to have this big problem with authority, but oh man, that is such a fucking lie. Sometimes I actually wonder how Alistair didn't wear you down sooner. You need to be owned and controlled. You practically beg for it."

"At least I don't wanna do the controlling." Dean finally finds his voice. "That's your problem. You can't control everything, Sam."

"Watch me."

Sam reaches out and grabs Dean by the front of his filthy t-shirt, tossing him toward the stairs. Dean's shins hit stone and he yelps in pain as he falls forward to catch himself. Sam's hand feels sticky where it touched Dean, who possibly hasn't changed his clothes in days.

"Now I want you to get upstairs."

Dean goes, practically crawling. He looks back toward Sam a couple of times.

"Go on, go." It's like talking to a dog that's been kicked a thousand times. "And you are not coming back down here."

When they reach the light of the corridor above, Sam can really see how tired and drained Dean looks. It's coming off him in waves, but it's almost like relief, too. Like all Dean needed was Sam's attention, and direction.

Sam can work with that.

"Go clean yourself up, and get some sleep. "

"This isn't over - "

"Yeah, whatever. I say when this is over. And tomorrow, you're going outside."

That night, Sam watches his brother sleep. At first he sits motionless in a chair by the bed, and later he moves to Dean's side to stroke a soothing hand up and down his back. Dean's nightmares are so familiar to Sam now. So easy to understand, and so hard to assuage. But he tries his best, and he doesn't look away for a moment.

*~ *~*

The next day, Dean does go outside, though Sam doesn't want him anywhere near the gardens just yet. They take a new and unexplored route, hiking along an overgrown bridle path that starts on the other side of the back lawn and winds through the forest. Dean forges ahead, doing his best to push branches and brambles out of the way. It's a very chilly day despite the sun, and every cloud of breath Dean lets out draws Sam's eyes like a beacon. Sam watches every step Dean takes, closely, with a calm feeling that he dimly places somewhere between benevolence and predation.

The path was once lined with cobblestones of poor rock, and they can still be made out under layers of soil and plant. Dean walks uncharacteristically gently, as if wanting to leave as little trace of himself as possible. Sam walks heavily, and with purpose.

Eventually the path forks. One way looks like more of the same, and the other heads slightly downhill. Sam thinks he can hear the sound of running water.

"Which way, Sam?" Dean is holding his breath, and shivering despite his heavy jacket and the exertion of their hike. "This is your show."

Sam stares, considering every detail of his brother before he gives his reply.

 

*~ *~*

Sam uses furniture and boxes to block off all access to the cellars, and watches Dean for signs of disagreement, knowing that he won't find any. They spend almost all of their time together, but they don't speak much. They eat and they dust, they inventory and they polish. They read and listen to music. Sam watches while Dean checks on the car. He posts himself in the bathroom doorway while Dean takes his showers, and makes sure to set some task for Dean to complete while he takes his own. They keep the driveway clear and the weapons clean. Dean sleeps, and Sam fakes sleep. Days pass by in this same rhythm.

Sam has stopped circling the secret garden, and circles his brother instead. There is an invisible gravity between them. It's like a new game, or maybe an old one. Like something that's been forgotten, but was always there, simmering just beneath the surface whenever they were left alone for long stretches of time.

Of course it occurs to Sam that Dean might be acting this way because of the house. Dean always did have a tendency toward self-loathing, not to mention his oddly selective obedience. The house just seems to have brought those traits out. Maybe it's like Tamara suspected: the happier things drained away, the negative made manifest. But it's still all Dean. Of that there no question.

If Sam were entirely in his right mind, he might worry about himself, too. He might worry about the intensity of his focus, like an appetite that seems to grow rather than shrink when it's fed.

But then again, it might not make much of a difference.

*~ *~*

The library has produced an early map of the whole Alexander property during the construction of the Manor, and it shows the route of the bridle path, as well as a few other paths and trails. One leads over and down the west side of the mountain ridge - the central spine of the peninsula - and connects, eventually, to what must now be another point on the paved modern road. There's a path leading to a small lake. There's another path that circumnavigates an area marked with only some weird, cryptic initials. Sam makes a mental note to check that out soon.

Since they've got this map and the weather is getting a nicer, Sam sometimes lets Dean go off alone. The outside air is doing wonders for him, though Sam suspects it has as much to do with Sam's permission as it does with the air itself. Sam takes to walking the paths alone, as well, and knows that he could easily track his brother any time.

Sam knows this, and Dean knows it, too.

Now Sam walks again next to the garden walls, dragging his fingers against the stone and through the hanging green vines that have multiplied like crazy. He pulls a few strands along after him like tangled hair, and instead of breaking they are thick with life, tugging back with a force that seems almost sentient. He lets go as he comes to the final stretch of wall, where an entrance still eludes him. He stares in defiance for a moment, and then he passes the last corner and heads into the trees.

There is a leafy green cover now, the once-bare trees coming into bloom. The sun glints through in dappled shafts, and the smell of rotting wood is stronger, enhanced by whatever other dead matter has been uncovered by spring thaw, attracting small swarms of black gnats. There are still some chunks of ice and snow scattered on the softening ground, and dripping from the needles of the evergreens.

Sam's boots are squelching in the mud, but he finds more than enough dry earth and forest debris to stand on as he heads in the direction of the bridle path. He doesn't need the map. He knows the way.

When he comes to the fork, he takes the downhill path and the sound of running water gets louder. He comes to a creek into which the estate's snow run-off seems to be flowing, fast and loud. An old stone bridge still stands, spanning the few feet across, and Sam continues on, as silent as he can manage, toward the lake. The path is remarkably clear.

Just as the lake comes into view, a thin strip of silver light on the edge of his vision, Sam thinks he hears something. There's the sound of snapping twigs, and then a kind of thunk, like the dead weight of a body. Something unnatural to the surroundings that makes Sam still for a moment, unsure and at the same time completely certain of what he is going to see.

He presses onward, slowly and silently, and there is Dean. Dean is leaning against a birch tree with his back to Sam, facing out toward the lake's small beach. The lake is still frozen in parts, and a ghostly fog sublimates from the ice while broken branches litter the strangely dark sand. Sam can see Dean mostly in silhouette, a stray sunbeam making one shoulder of his leather jacket gleam lightly as his arm moves in a steady rhythm. And that's when Sam knows for sure: Dean is jerking off.

Sam remains utterly still and silent for another long moment as Dean's arm moves, a slow teasing up and down motion, and his head thunks against the tree. A few drops of water shake down from the branches and into Dean's hair. Sam is close enough to see them roll down onto his brother's neck, catching on his collar, and he registers that he's gone half-hard in his jeans, too.

He lets out a short huff, and Dean stops abruptly, going as still as Sam, as still as a deer in headlights. He turns around slowly and his eyes fix immediately on Sam. His hand hasn't moved from his cock, but his lower body is still shielded from this angle.

Sam says nothing, but finds himself taking a few more steps forward. Dean lets out the breath he's been holding, and moves to tuck himself back into his pants. Sam hears his own blood pumping through his veins like an omen, and then he hears himself say, "No."

Dean freezes again, his eyes glassy as they dart over Sam's face and body. He clears his throat and opens his mouth as if to speak, but he says nothing.

"No," Sam says again, all casual, because this is a game he can play to win. "Don't mind me. I get it. You came out here for some privacy."

Dean flushes, uncharacteristically shy. "I, uh - "

Mesmerized by the flush on Dean's skin, Sam wants to touch it and see if it will warm his hands from the chill of the forest air. It's not quite an impulse, because Sam is beyond impulse, deliberate in everything he does. Like when they were teenagers and he would play at making Dean uncomfortable with questions that he already knew the answers to, questions about his body, or about sex, just to watch him squirm and feign coolness. But there is no more feigning now.

Sam reaches out and cups his left hand, perhaps more harshly than he means to, around the back of Dean's neck. The bark of the tree is rough against his knuckles, but he is rewarded with a choked gasp. He can see now that Dean's cock is still hard, straining out from his open zipper and twitching slightly when Sam glances down at it with a tilt of his head. Dean's flannel shirt is open and the faded t-shirt beneath is rucked up, showing the fine hairs on his lower stomach. Some water has caught there, too, though it might be sweat, and it gleams as it trickles down.

Sam doesn't let go of Dean's neck, but Dean isn't fighting. He's just letting his hands scrabble sort of helplessly against the tree at his back, legs planted apart and breath coming faster now. And so Sam slides his other hand to his own zipper, lets it down slowly, and lets the bulge of his growing erection show against his boxers.

"You look scared again, Dean." Sam pitches his voice low and dark. "It's a good look on you. But you know what would look even better on you?"

"S-sam...," says Dean in a quick, panicked whisper, and he comes unfrozen then, halfheartedly trying to dodge away. Sam only grips tighter and then pushes down, using the hand on Dean's neck to nudge him onto his knees, and the other hand on his chest, to keep his upper body pinned back against the tree. Dean is folded there at a slightly awkward angle. It wouldn't be hard for him to get away, but it's not like he's trying to. He looks dazed, biting his bottom lip raw as he stares up. He looks gorgeous, just like Sam always imagined in the most secret corners of his imagination, the ones he hasn't let himself visit in years.

Sam lets go of him, then, and instead works himself slowly to full hardness just inches above Dean's upturned face.

"You're not going anywhere. Because I've realized something, Dean. I know what you really want. You always have. You want to be put in your place."

Dean's cock has shown no signs of going down. It's bobbing up toward his stomach now, and there is moisture glistening from the tip, the smell of it mingling with the smells of the lake and the forest around them. "Look at you. So eager for it, so hungry. I know what you want, and I'm going to give it to you."

Dean is staring at Sam's cock, transfixed. Sam snorts. "It kind of looks like yours, doesn't it? I'm bigger, maybe, but then I'm bigger than you, everywhere. Have you seen a lot of cock before? I bet you have. All that time in Hell. Or maybe all those years on the road without me. Someone like you, with your constant bragging about girls? Always knew you were hiding something."

Dean says nothing, which is neither confirmation nor denial. Sam continues, going for the next punch.

"I wonder if it's a family resemblance, huh?" He strokes himself again, relishing the feeling as his cock fills even further with blood. "Do you think we got it from Dad?"

That makes Dean flinch. He makes a tiny noise, and Sam's heart races even faster, practically leaping out of his chest. He moves his legs apart and then forward to tighten against Dean's arms, holding him in place more firmly, and then cants his hips closer to trail the head of his cock down the side of Dean's face before pressing it against Dean's lips.

Sam speaks calmly and evenly, with a deceptive gentleness that belies the red haze of his lust. "Open your mouth."

Dean still hasn't moved, but he keeps his lips closed. He looks like he's at war with himself. But not with Sam, never with Sam.

"Open your mouth. Or do you want me... to open it for you?"

Dean sinks his hands into the dirt around the highest roots of the tree, and still keeps his lips closed.

Sam reaches down with the arm he's been using to hold himself up, and clamps two fingers around his brother's nose. Dean's face goes an even deeper shade of red as he struggles not to breathe, not to open his mouth for Sam and let this go any further, to where there's no going back. But Sam isn't having that. There's already no going back.

"You won't last long like this." He knows exactly what to say next. "Open your fucking mouth, Dean. That's an order."

Before Sam has even finished speaking, Dean is parting his lips wide on a desperate inhale. But before Sam can even push inside, he is coming all over Dean's jaw, in messy spurts through the hair at his temple, and down his shirt collar. Dean shudders and closes his eyes, and it's one of the most beautiful things Sam has ever seen.

"God, Dean, look what you do to me. I couldn't even...You have no idea, what you look like down there." He pauses for a moment, letting his breath come back to normal. Dean is still panting, too, and still doesn't move. He just kneels there with his cock still hanging out of his jeans, softening in a puddle of his own come, which Sam can see everywhere - on his jeans, in his bellybutton.

"That was good for you, huh. Knew it would be. Did you touch yourself, or did you get off just from this, by itself?" Sam gestures between them, knowing Dean will understand what he means. They're both still panting, and Sam is talking mostly to himself. "Knew you wanted this. I should have known before. Been pushing me for so long, haven't you..."

Sam grabs Dean's sticky chin and tilts his head up so that he can look straight into his eyes again. "Haven't you, Dean?"

Dean wipes his face with his sleeve and finally speaks.

"Yeah, Sammy."

That's all, and then Sam pulls him up to stand.

"About time. Now lets get back to the house." He looks out across the lake, at the graying sky. "I think it's going to rain."

"Yeah," Dean says again, softly. He looks like he's still processing what just happened and might start to freak out.

"Stop thinking, man." Once again, Sam knows exactly what to say. He still has one hand on Dean's shoulder, and he squeezes. "That's what you have me for. Just let go."

And with a deep breath, Dean does.

*~ *~*

Time slips by, or perhaps it doesn't. It could be hours, or days. Sam isn't paying much attention, too caught up in the thrill of his new-found power over his brother. He feels drunk with it. A switch has been flipped inside him, or inside both of them, and he doesn't ever want to turn it off. He can hardly believe that he ever lived without this, without Dean's skin under his hands, pliant and devoted. It's solemn and essential, like a ritual.

It's night, and Sam has Dean laid out on the bare floor, only moonlight and Sam's long shadow cast upon his body. They're in an empty room upstairs, all the furniture moved out or never there to start with, and Sam is leaning against the windowsill. He can see the protection tattoo on Dean's chest, rising and falling as he breathes, and Sam feels a pulse of ownership and pride.

"Keep your eyes closed, Dean. And don't move."

It's like Dean is hypnotized, so intense is his desire to do whatever Sam says. He's wholly inside of it, like he has no other care in the world. Sam wants to keep him there, wants to push him ever further inside. Dean has always pushed him so hard, and now he understands why. He's only returning the favor.

"I'm going to ask you something." Sam speaks slowly as he stalks closer with the grace of a panther. "Do you like yourself, Dean?"

Dean furrows his eyebrows for a moment before he whispers, "No."

Sam kneels down between his brother's knees and puts both hands on his legs. "What was that?"

"No." Dean shivers and his eyelids flutter. His head is tipped back, baring his throat like an offering.

"Eyes closed." Sam commands, and then softens his voice again. "Why not, Dean?"

"Because..." Dean's arms briefly come up toward his face as if he wants to shield himself, but he quickly puts them back down the way Sam said. "'Cause I - "

"Shhhh...." Sam strokes down Dean's stomach. "It's okay, you don't have to answer. I just want you to think about it, so that I can tell you all the reasons that you're wrong."

"God, Sam..." He's broken out in a chill sweat, and Sam crawls up his body to lick a stripe up his neck.

"You don't have to hate yourself. All of those things that you think you need punishing for? None of them are your fault." He's blanketing Dean completely now, and Dean bucks up into him with a low moan.

"You don't need to be punished. You don't need it. But if you want it... let me take care of you."

"It's - it's the house..." Dean pants out as his biceps strain where Sam is squeezing around them.

"What?"

"It's the house. Otherwise you would never..."

"Never what, Dean?" Sam mumbles into his neck and brings one hand down to cradle his ass against the floor. Dean's body rocks into his touch.

"I always... but I could never... you, you would never..." His voice is desperate and pleading for Sam to understand. "God, we - this isn't supposed to -"

"This isn't supposed to happen?" Sam grinds down against his brother's cock and they both hiss with pleasure. "Because I'm your brother. Is that what you were going to say? That's where you're wrong, man. This is exactly what's supposed to happen. I want this as much as you do. You don't even know..."

Sam splays one large hand on Dean's sternum and makes his way back down Dean's body, resting his face against the soft skin of Dean's abs as if he has all the time in the world, even as Dean's hips strain up to seek further contact and heat.

"It's not the house," Sam whispers before sucking a bruise into Dean's hipbone. Dean will be covered in bruises before Sam is done, and he will love every second of it. "It's just us. This is all... just us."

*~ *~*

"Sam?"

"Hmm?" Sam looks up from his books. He's found another English work on landscape configurations, which he hopes might yield some information about the precise sequence of the garden walls, and also an old, painfully arcane treatise about seasonal horticulture that takes the twelve signs of the zodiac very seriously, not to mention the four bodily humors.

They're not in the library, but in Sam's bed. Dean's been asleep for a few hours already, and now he stirs slightly awake, cracking one eye open just enough to look at Sam.

"Have you found anything?" His voice is quiet and small against the pillow.

"Depends on what you think I'm looking for," Sam snorts and tugs on the neck of Dean's shirt. They're both fully-dressed, grudging concession to another cold snap.

Dean rouses himself just a bit more and twists away from Sam's grip, turning his face away from the light, away from Sam. "No. This, this is bad..."

"We've been over this, Dean."

"No, I mean, the garden. It's getting worse. When I sleep, I can feel it, making me - "

"Wait, did you say the garden?" Suddenly Sam can sense it, too. Something is stirring down below in the dark in that garden. Of course Dean would be the one more in tune with the environment. Irony at its finest.

"You were right," Dean slurs. "We should have solved this sooner, before..."

"I will find the way in." Sam ignores the other implications of Dean's rambling.

"I know..." Dean drifts, and Sam will be surprised if he remembers this conversation in the morning.

*~ *~*

Sam is just coming out of the bathroom when he hears a door slam hard, the sound reverberating and final.

"Dean?" He calls into the hallway, but there's no reply. There's a change in the air, like the near-imperceptible pressure of another person entering or leaving a room, and Sam knows that he's alone in the house.

He pulls his boots on as fast as he can and runs to the front doors. He stares out across the courtyard and down the drive, but there's no sign of his brother. He runs next to the back door nearest the kitchen, flinging it open just in time to see Dean disappear into the trees.

"Dean!" He shouts once, twice, feeling his anger well up to choke him as he sprints as fast as he can to catch up.

"Where are you going?" His own voice echoes back to him. "You know you can't leave."

"We can't stay here!" Dean's voice is an echo, too, and Sam can't yet tell which direction it's coming from, maybe somewhere to the north. "This is so _fucked_ , Sam!"

"You think so? Well I don't!" Sam is so angry that he can't even care how angry he sounds, his tone completely at odds with his next words. "I think this is the best thing that could have happened!"

"It's the garden. It's messing with our minds!" Now his voice might come from the west. "We have to get away from here, then we can forget this whole mess!"

Sam moves forward a few feet, looking for tracks and bent branches, any clue that will help him find where Dean got off the path.

"There's nothing I want to forget - don't you get it yet? Or do you need me to mark it all over you?"

"Listen to yourself, man! We can't do this anymore, should never have started!" His voice is moving away now, easier to track as it recedes to the west. "It's this place!"

"Even if it is, you never said you didn't want this - " Sam darts ahead toward Dean's voice, and finds himself in an open space filled with large rock outcroppings where no trees have taken root. He can make out old numbers and long grooves gouged into the rockface, and knows where he must be.

Unwittingly or not, Dean has led him into that weird area marked on the original property map.

"No." Dean's voice comes more softly now, but still carries. "But that doesn't matter."

And then Sam sees Dean dart from behind a tall rock at the far end of the clearing. Sam moves to follow, and that's when the ground gives beneath him. For a split second he thinks he's slipped on a patch of black ice, but then he's heading feet first into darkness, and only has time to think _mineshaft_ before he's out cold.

 

_Part Three_

"Ugh." Sam comes to, no way of telling how long it's been. He's on his back about a dozen feet underground, and he can see the blue-gray sky through the hole where he fell in. He thinks back to the moments before, mentally retracing his steps. He wonders how many more of the weathered rock faces were actually man-made slabs, meant to forever cover the shallow remains of this abandoned mining exploration. At least he didn't end up a shattered corpse, hundreds of feet down.

His head throbs and he feels some sticky wetness where he touches his fingertips to his scalp. His whole body aches but he doesn't think anything's broken. He feels along the rough-hewn stone around him, gauging how difficult it will be to climb back out on his own. The shaft is maybe eight by ten across at its widest point, perhaps only two by two in other places. Sam was lucky to have landed on a wide ledge, a last platform before the floor cuts steeply and narrowly down another few feet.

He lies there a few moments longer, with nothing but the distant forest sounds above and the irregular drip-drip of water on stone to keep him conscious. He breathes in the chalky smell of shale and the metallic tang of his blood, and the earthier smells of rotting leaves and small animals that must have gotten in over the years, leaving their delicate bones behind. They snap like twigs where his palms press against them as he lifts himself into a sitting position.

Underneath, half-buried in a clump of foul soil, he feels something else, something larger and more defined. He could have mistaken it for a rock, but for the way it stuck and lifted ever so slightly with his movement. He leans back against the shaft wall and peers down, trying to make out the shape with his itchy, burning eyes. As his sight caught up with his touch, he realized what he had found. It was something like a ring of rusty iron or brass, and as he brushed the dirt away he could see that it was more than a ring; it was an old key, and it looked as if it had been buried down here a long time.

Stricken, Sam jumps to his feet. He nearly hits his head against some sharp rock edges. He looks at the key, almost frightened, as it hangs from his finger.

"It's..." His voice bounces against the mineshaft as he talks to himself. "Holy shit, it's..."

He looks at the key quite a long time. He turns it over and over, and thinks about it. Deep in the marrow of his bones, he already knows what it must be, and why it was thrown to rest for eternity at the bottom of a forgotten mineshaft.

Sam is not a man who asks for permission about things. All he thinks about the key is that if it is indeed the key to the closed garden, it's all he needs to find the door. It's not even because he wants to end whatever dark, exquisite magic has come over the Manor. It's only because the garden has been shut up for all those years that he wants to see inside of it, and so know, finally, what could possibly be so special inside. He wants to know, _has_ to know, so that there can be nothing outside of his control and understanding. Not Dean, not this fucking place. Hell, nothing. Yes, he thinks, there is something significant to be learned here. His literally stumbling onto the key cannot be a coincidence. And it's like it means something that Dean's the one who led him there.

Tucking the heavy key into the back of his jeans as naturally as he would a gun, Sam starts trying to heave himself up and out of this hole. He doesn't have much success at first. Even his impressive height can't help him to find a foothold any lower than some thick old nails about five feet from the bottom, no doubt left hammered into the rock during the mining explorations.

He feels along the wall, grasping in the shadows for a good spot. Finally, he grabs on to a higher rock ledge and use it to swing his body up toward the nails, trying to get the edge of one boot to catch there. It takes a few tries before he has a secure angle, and then he's clinging to the wall, standing precariously on a set of nails as he searches for another small ledge to grab onto.

"Sam!"

It's right then that Dean's frantic voice booms down, and Sam nearly slips and falls again as he cranes his neck up to see his brother's head and shoulders outlined against the brightening sky.

"Sammy, are you okay? You gotta be okay, man!"

"Yeah, 'm okay! Just... just help me out of here!" He redoubles his efforts to climb up, and soon he's straining a hand up for Dean to pull tightly. Dean pulls with all the force he can muster, Sam's ragged hands smearing blood and dirt between them as he wedges himself upwards. Then he's out, and they both roll onto their backs, collapsing in the sun. Sam's hair sticks to his face and neck, and the key digs into the base of his spine, sparking a familiar, mild wave of nausea as it hits the old knife scar that still troubles him.

"You're okay, you're okay," Dean pants. He's out-of-breath, not just from pulling Sam's weight, but more like he'd been running a long distance.

"Shouldn't have run from me..." Sam last reaches out blindly to fist Dean's shirt, keeping his hand there in a loose grip.

"Yeah, well, I had to do something. You were going all Jack Torrance on me," Dean tries to joke, but there's an awkward edge to it. "I... I, uh, made it down past the property line before I realized you weren't right behind me."

"Past the..." Sam knows dimly that this means something, that there's something very important about Dean crossing the property line. It flares in the back of his roiling mind, but only for a second before Dean speaks again.

"We're not going to talk about that right now," Dean mutters. He starts to rise, but Sam swiftly rolls over and traps him against the flat rock, fixing him in place with a strong arm and a manic glare.

"I found the key," Sam announces against Dean's shoulder. "In the mine. I found the key."

Dean swallows hard, then tentatively reaches up to touch Sam's arm. "That's great, that's... really great."

"Is that all you have to say?" Sam pins him down harder, bringing one leg over Dean's hips and not caring when Dean's whole body goes completely stiff and still. "Do you know how major this is?"

"Yeah, I do. I really do. You can solve this whole mystery now." Dean inches away and Sam lets him. This time it's Dean who pulls Sam up from the ground. "Phew, we'll have to cover up these holes. Somebody could really hurt themselves around here."

 

*~ *~*

His whole life, as far back as he can remember, Sam Winchester has seen a great deal of monsters and magic. He has known all the evils of this earth, supernatural or otherwise.

But what happens next is unlike anything he's ever seen before.

Still covered in the grit and grime of the earth, Sam and Dean hobble back through the forest, stopping when the garden walls come into view.

There is something different in the air now, the green veil of hanging vines and the very stones themselves pregnant with anticipation. Sam reaches back to pull the key from its place in the waistband of his torn and blackened jeans. He approaches the wall slowly and with ceremony, the way that he's approached Dean all of these nights. The parallel will not escape him later, but right now he only has eyes for the wall. He can feel Dean's presence a few feet behind him, but doesn't turn around.

The corroded metal in his hand seems to throb gently as he raises his arm out in front of his face. The motion is familiar, the muscle memory once ingrained in his polluted blood now set to a different purpose.

Different but perhaps not dissimilar, for he is still performing an exorcism of sorts.

As he stands there in the sun, arm outstretched, he still sees nothing but stone and thickly growing, glossy, dark green leaves. Then a wind blows up from behind him, strong enough to wave the branches of the trees, and more than strong enough to sway the trailing sprays of ivy. The stone beneath shimmers as if passed over by a wave of heat.

"Hey, look!" Dean gasps from somewhere behind him, and Sam does look as a glint of bright copper appears where before there was none. It's the knob of a door.

Sam lunges forward and grabs onto it for dear life, as the outline of an arched doorway begins to appear and then fully manifests as wood and metal. The swinging vines are hitting Sam everywhere, but his heart thumps and his hands shake a little in his delight and excitement as the toothed edge of the key finds its place in the lock. With all of his might, the key begins to turn.

And then Sam takes a long breath and looks behind him to see Dean. He is covered head-to-toe in black soot, drying mud, smeared blood and small cuts and bruises, but his eyes are shining with hope. Sam takes another long breath because he can't help it, and then shoves his shoulder against the door which opens slowly... so slowly...

Then Sam is standing inside the secret garden.

*~ *~*

It's like nothing he's ever seen before, in that it's nothing like what he expected.

He isn't sure what he expected, actually. Some kind of evil green pulsating vortex, maybe? Or the complete opposite - a place of stunning beauty and tangible power. But whatever else, Sam did not expect that this would be... just a garden. Very pretty, yeah, sure, like something out of one of those period movies with the Victorian costumes, wrought iron benches and fat cherub sculptures. But just a garden, though a bit wilder and more fully in bloom than the others that hadn't been locked.

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping. And in the middle of this garden, surrounded by tall grass and purple thistles, Sam falls to his knees.

Sam falls to his knees, his mouth open on a silent wail as he's hit with the full impact of what's happened. It passes into him like a current, the knowledge of what this place has done to him, what it's let him become.

It all seems so obvious, now. Of course it does. Sam could kick himself for not putting it all together sooner.

"Sam, hey..." Dean comes up and puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, and Sam shakes it off as if he's being burned.

"Oh my god, Dean! Oh my god," Sam chokes out, too shocked to manage much more than a hoarse whisper. "How can - how can you stand to touch me? What - " Sam lets himself fall forward onto his elbows, barely registers his face in the dirt and the impact of his right funny bone slamming into a stray rock. "After what I did to you!"

"Take it easy, it wasn't you. It was - "

"Of course it was me, man! What do you think, it was just the garden? Well it _is_ just a fucking _garden_! I fucked up so bad, Dean. I... it didn't make me do anything that wasn't already - "

"Well, you and me both." Dean is crouched on the ground, too. He grabs the bloody collar of Sam's shirt with both hands and hoists him up onto his knees until they're face to face, never letting go. "I told you, I got past the property line. And it was just like Tamara said, remember? As soon as I got there, I, you know. Felt like normal again."

"And what, I'm supposed to feel _normal_ now, since we unlocked some big fucking secret and broke some fucking spell? Well I guess I was _never_ normal, Dean." Sam snorts, thinking to himself that if he were normal, he'd be even more completely hysterical by now. Instead he's beginning to feel a calm coalescing beneath his panic, a kind of perverse satisfaction at having everything he's ever suspected about himself confirmed. "Just some kind of demonic control freak who wants to _fuck my brother_."

"You're not a freak, man. And you're still in shock. The same thing happened to me..." Dean is speaking calmly, more calmly than Sam would have though him capable. "What did you think I was doing before? When you were down in that mineshaft for, like, two hours."

"Two..." Sam starts clicking more pieces into place. "How - "

It takes a minute for that to sink in, that Dean had been out from under the Manor's control since well before he dragged Sam out of that hole, just waiting for Sam to get on the same page.

"Can we not - I mean, can we talk about this later?" Dean stands and rubs a hand down his face, only making himself even dirtier. "I'm not trying to avoid anything or ignore your pain or whatever, not anymore. I just - look, we need to recover before we can think about this clearly. Alright?"

Sam pushes his hair off his face and tries to take a deep breath. The floral smell is so strong here, almost suffocating, but underneath it he can smell his brother. This is both disturbing and comforting, and Sam doesn't have the faintest idea what his own feelings are right now. They're a jumbled, twisted mess. All he wants to do is lean forward and melt into Dean, but he doesn't. He doesn't know how he'll ever be able to touch Dean again without hating himself.

"Yeah," says Sam. "Yeah, you're right."

"Okay. But there is one thing I have to do." Without further warning, Dean pulls a fist and punches Sam in the jaw hard enough to almost knock him out again.

"Fuck..." says Sam, falling sideways. He spits a mouthful of blood onto the soft earth, notices as some of it hits a small yellow flower and coats a few petals with red.

Then he pulls himself up to full height and locks eyes with Dean. For a moment, they simply stand there. If anyone happened upon this scene, they would find two very incongruous, bedraggled figures in that sunny green garden. But another gust of wind passes over and away into silence, and of course they are very much alone.

Neither of them says a word as they turn and walk together out of the garden. They leave the door wide open, key still dangling in the lock.

*~ *~*

"So."

"Uh, so."

It's the first time they've spoken in days. Sam hasn't left the house - hasn't even left his room except for a scant few food and bathroom breaks, and he doesn't think Dean has either. Sam could hear him pacing and shifting, tossing and turning in his room across the hall. They've passed each other in the stairwell a couple of times, sidling by like a couple of wary cats.

Now, Dean is knocking on Sam's door and Sam is letting him in. Dean sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, and Sam remembers with a pang the last time that Dean was in here. The taste and the feel of him; It's like a fever dream, now.

Sam has had plenty of time to think about everything, but he finds he can't think much beyond his feelings. And he still hasn't gotten much past what he first felt there in the garden, that he'd been stupid and selfish, and taken advantage of his brother's weakness in the worst possible way.

Living as it were, all by themselves in a cursed house with a hundred mysteriously closed rooms and a secret garden, had set in motion the events that led here. But Sam knows now that the true magic has been in the way it works slightly differently on everyone, depending on who they are. It strips away a person's more civilized qualities, those things that help them to hide their true, most primitive selves and to get along in the world. Thus laid bare, people tend to let loose the feelings and desires that they would otherwise keep trapped within. In Tamara's case it was guilt and despair. In Sam's it was... _fuck_ was it ever something else entirely.

Sam and Dean may both have been under the influence of this place, but no matter what Dean may have said at first, Sam is sure that the more time his brother has to process what went on between them, the more disgusted he will be.

"Lovely weather we're having," half-jokes Dean, breaking Sam's rumination. Dean's palms are flat on his thighs, fingers curling down over his knees as he looks at the floor. He looks thin and distracted, and he's wearing what must be his last set of clean clothes at this point.

One thing that Sam knows for sure is that he has no idea how long they've been here. It has to be well over the month that Tamara promised. Probably more like two.

"Yeah," Sam huffs out with a soft, humorless laugh, not knowing what to say. He's said enough already and what he really needs is for Dean to take the lead right now. Otherwise he's only going to dig himself into a deeper and deeper hole. "Lovely."

"I, uh. Do you want to come out to the garden with me?"

Sam has gone over to the window, staring outside so that he won't be staring at Dean. He leans his forehead against the glass and rubs his thumb along one of the old screw holes in the lacquered wood frame, where they'd removed one of the thick iron bars. It was one of the first things they did when they'd settled in, and Sam thinks it no small irony. And they have yet to do the bars on the outside, too.

"Sam? Come on, man, we got inside, but we still don't know what caused this thing."

Dean is right. It's not good enough to just declare that the curse has been lifted. It's their job to try and make sure that it never happens to anyone else, ever again. Everything else can wait, like it always does. Until it can't wait anymore.

Sam sighs and turns around. "Yeah, I know."

*~ *~*

They take the long way around from the front doors, just like Sam did the very first time he approached the garden. The main courtyard is looking beautiful now, though it will still need to be cleaned up a bit. The exposed statues are standing tall and graceful on their carved stone bases among rich spring plants and rough, mossy paving stones. An allegorical figure here, some character from Greek myth there.

The stone benches in the rear yard form a large square around the dancing-girl fountain, which is empty now but for an inch of dirt, and the old cider-apple trees are starting to break out into those delicate pink blossoms that always fly away at the lightest touch.

The shrubbery has grown taller without all that snow to hold it back, and it takes Dean a minute to locate the gap that Sam remembers marks the beginning of the pathway which runs along the garden walls.

Bypassing the door into the first of the sequential gardens, which will have to be mucked out some other time, they head directly for the secret garden. The door hasn't disappeared, hasn't moved from how they left it, but Sam never thought it would.

The place is a wilderness of gold and purple and violet blue and flaming scarlet and on every side are sheaves of lilies standing together. Early roses climb and hang and cluster between the patches of daffodils and purple thistles that Sam saw before. The gentle sunshine makes the green hues of the vines, trees and grasses glint as if they've been dipped in gold, and the few copper statues set into alcoves all around the walls shine like temple icons.

It really is one of the most beautiful places that Sam has ever been. If he were to re-imagine Eden now, it would look something like this.

Not that he would deserve to be there.

"Stop it, man." As if reading his mind, Dean jostles him with an elbow. "Whatever you've got going on in that giant brain. Just, let's get a closer look around."

Dean pulls the EMF meter from his jacket. He must have retrieved it from the Impala when Sam wasn't paying attention. It doesn't tell them anything much, but they keep it on as they walk forward.

Far in the back corner, hidden by a wide tree and built into the wall itself, is a small stone shed, with a copper-handled iron shovel leaning up against it. A gardeners' toolshed, then. But Sam has a weird feeling about it, hitting him like a miasma, and he motions for Dean to come over and check it out.

"Is it locked? Another mystery wrapped inside an enigma," Dean starts to joke weakly again but Sam remains silent. Dean rolls up his sleeves and pulls open the door.

Inside, in a dark cell that's lined with tools and can't be more than four feet square, there is a small wooden table with a chair. On the table there lie a book, the waxen remains of a candle, and a copper bowl containing some dried up herbs and flakes of rust-red blood. And in the chair, sitting as if waiting for supper, is the well-preserved corpse of a man.

His leather-dry skin is stretched thin over his bones, except where it's split open lengthwise at each wrist. On the floor beneath his dangling right arm lies the knife that he used to do it. He is wearing the patched and rough clothing of a gardener, but the knife is finely made. Its handle is inlaid with copper, of course, and its silvery blade is still razor-sharp when Dean retrieves it.

The sunlight streaming in gives the scene a luminous appearance, like a Vermeer, but Sam's eyes are drawn straight to the book on the table. It's thick and ancient, with a corded ribbon marking some place inside. When he opens it, he recognizes the language as Latin, though there are messy margin notes in a spidery English hand.

"I guess we salt and burn..." says Dean as he places the knife next to the book on the table. Then her leans in to read over Sam's shoulder. "Uh, does that mean what I think?"

_Pro Perficio Gaudium Eternum_

Sam backs out of the doorway, back into the sunlight. He laughs once, then again, and before he can help himself he's laughing uncontrollably.

"Oh man, I'm sorry, but man," he manages between gulps of air. "That is... that's not even funny."

"So something went wrong?" Dean looks dumbfounded by Sam's nervous laughter. "Or, uh, I guess that would be an understatement."

"This was supposed to be some kind of happiness spell, Dean. A _happiness spell_." He has stopped laughing. "So, yeah, I'd say something went wrong."

Dean retrieves the book from the table and brings it out into the light for a better look. He hands it to Sam. "You're better with this stuff."

Sam isn't sure if Dean means Latin or witchcraft, but he doesn't ask. He just squints at the text.

"It looks like the idea was to keep this place in a kind of stasis. Used copper as a conduit, maybe because there's so much of it lying around. But he should have known that anything involving blood ritual can't be good. The spell couldn't just keep the garden in full summer bloom forever without taking the energy from somewhere else."

Dean just blinks for a moment. "I don't think it's that simple. It wasn't exactly happy energy that it took."

Sam could say a million things to that, but what comes out is, "I wonder why he did it."

"It's kind of obvious, isn't it? The gardener was the only one who stayed here with the widow for 20 years after Alexander died, right? A guy that loyal, he had to have been in love with her or something. It must have been a hard life up here, and he gave his trying to preserve something that she loved."

That actually makes a lot of sense. It also makes sense that Dean could relate to it, considering the care he takes preserving the things he loves which hold some meaning for him. And Sam's heart clenches painfully in his chest to hear Dean talk about love and loyalty.

Sam just stares at him until he looks away, face coloring slightly.

"He sure chose a shitty way of doing it, though." Dean kicks at the ground. "And seriously, the gardener? That's like finding out the butler did it."

Sam can't help a chuckle at that, and suddenly he feels better, like everything might somehow be okay. Like, if Dean's sense of humor is coming back, maybe it can help heal them both, just as it always has. Maybe forgetting this whole thing really is the way to go.

Dean has the meter out again, but there's no EMF coming from the shed, either. "I don't think the place is haunted anymore, if it ever was."

"No, it was probably just the spell. And that's broken now. If we're careful not to damage the garden, we should probably salt and burn the shed just to be safe."

"Yeah, Sammy," says Dean as he smiles more brightly than he has in a long time. "Burn your wicked gardener to the ground."

*~ *~*

Late in the afternoon, deed done, Sam goes up to the third floor viewpoint window. He looks across the yard and gardens, and he can see a bit of smoke still curling up from the little stone shed, the last glowing embers safely burning themselves out. A gentle wind rustles across the forest, and in the distance he thinks he sees the deep blue and vast waters of Lake Superior.

When he reaches down to pull open the window, he notices that Dean's single fingerprint is still there on the glass. He pulls his sleeve over the heel of his hand to wipe it away, but hesitates, and finally decides to leave it there. It's a small comfort, this visible mark of Dean's touch. He hovers his own fingers over it, feeling close to his brother and hating himself for being so sentimental about what he knows is an unnatural, ugly desire.

He's got the window open and is examining the join of the iron bars to the outer stone when Dean comes up the hall behind him.

"Hey."

"Hey," says Sam without turning around, just fiddling self-consciously with the metal like he's been caught red-handed having bad thoughts.

"I, uh, I got some of those bars off already. In the kitchen. You just need this one Allen wrench - I can show you if you want."

"Yeah, thanks. That would be great." They're both obviously stalling.

"Listen, can we... can we talk?" And so it is Dean who will move this forward after all. Sam breathes a sigh that's equal parts relief and apprehension.

"Yeah." Sam turns around to see that Dean's expression is open and pleading. And Sam's not sure if he's ever quite realized Dean's eyes could take on that precise shade of green.

"Come on. I don't wanna do this standing up here." Dean gestures with his head and shoulder toward the stairs.

For some reason, Sam assumed that they would be going back outside, but on the second-floor landing, their way is blocked by cardboard boxes stacked high and wide. Sam can see bits of dark velvet and embroidered cotton sticking out from where the boxes are open, recognizing some of the clothes he'd found during his first explorations around the Manor.

Dean notices his pause and explains. "Figured we should clear all this out, see if Tamara's friend wants it sold or sent to a museum or something."

They pass the boxes and Sam sees that they're headed for Dean's bedroom. For a moment he's surprised, but then it occurs to him that Dean would probably feel most comfortable here, in the space he's marked out for himself alone. There's a chair in here, and they never... well, that wasn't in here.

Sam sits himself in the chair, while Dean remains standing with his hand on the door for a moment before closing it. Sam notices a tear in the textured wallpaper near the doorknob, and focuses on that.

Dean walks forward until he's about five feet away, and then he speaks.

"Everything you said before was true."

Sam blinks a couple of times, not following. "Before, when?"

"Before you broke the spell in the garden. You were right about everything. It was... nothing happened that I didn't want. And as fucked-up as it is, I'm kinda grateful that it's out in the open now."

Sam felt himself going into a panic. Dean could not possibly be saying what it sounds like he's saying.

"But, Dean," he manages in a cracked voice, "what I did - "

"Was what I needed. Fuck, it was what we both needed. There are no victims or villains here, so stop punishing yourself."

Sam is shocked stupid by these words coming out of his brother's mouth. "I, uh. I need to think about this."

"No, you don't." Dean sighs deeply, like he's talking to a child and losing his patience. "You think too damn much. So much you don't even sleep. I think that's partly what started this in the first place, why you couldn't recognize that there was something wrong with you."

"Something wrong with me, huh," Sam snorts.

"Jesus, that's not what I meant."

"Well then what _did_ you mean?"

Dean moves forward so fast that Sam braces himself to be punched in the face again, but as his brain catches up with his nerves he realizes that Dean is straddling his lap and... Dean is _kissing_ him. Their mouths are closed but there is no mistaking the press of Dean's lips for what it is. It lasts all of five seconds before Dean pulls back slightly, hands clutching Sam's shirt like he's holding onto a lifeline.

"I meant - maybe it took a spell for us to get here, and the way it happened was fucked up. I'm not denying that. But now that we're here, and we're clear... I want this. I think we both have..." Dean pauses to take a shaky breath. "Long time coming, man. So stop thinking so hard, and stop playing the martyr. It is what it is. I don't - I don't see why we can't just have it."

Sam _is_ going to keep thinking about this. Probably for years. No matter what happens now, over-thinking is just part of who he is. But Dean does have a point. There is no way that Sam can deny it when his body are already responding to the warmth of Dean's, heavy and strong and powerful against him. Dean must notice it, too, because when Sam next exhales, Dean takes it as a cue to lean into Sam's mouth again, this time with softer lips and one hand sliding around to cup the back of Sam's skull.

Sam's mind reels, a million thoughts and feelings warring for attention. Guilt and failure, a lifetime of denial and love and confusion. All of the sacrifices that Dean has made. His 40 years in Hell, and the astonishing self-awareness that he's slowly developed since his return and the shit that happened after - which Sam is only just now starting to fully appreciate. The wrongness of it all, and also the rightness. How fucked-up this is, and how inevitable.

"God, Dean..." Sam moans and holds tightly to his brother.

"If you're gonna apologize again, shut it," says Dean between heavy breaths and light but heated kisses to the side of Sam's face and neck. "Right now I just need you to touch me."

That gets another moan from Sam, who stands up to full height never letting go, and lays them out on Dean's bed in one smooth movement. He's aligned over Dean's spread thighs, the denim of their jeans rough and hot between them. Then he freezes and looks down into Dean's eyes, pupils blown and the green of his irises reminding Sam once more of that perfect garden.

"Dean, are you sure? I don't want to -"

"What, take control? Yes you do. And I fucking love it."

*~ *~*

They're just about finished now with whatever work was left to do around the house. Cracks have been plastered, rooms inventoried, boxes packed and labeled, laundry washed and hung to dry outside.

Dean even outdoes himself by cleaning out the carriage house. As a reward, Sam fucks him right there, licks him open and makes him beg so pretty on the hood of the Impala.

They go back to eating all their meals together. They're both ravenous, but there's still food in the kitchen. Meat in the freezer, and neat jars and cans all lined up in the pantry. Not tons left, but way more than there should be by now. Sam reckons that whatever mild stasis the spell had them under must have extended to include their need to eat. They're also sleeping in the same room, and often showering together. Though this does not actually do much to keep the water from going cold before they're through.

 

*~ *~*

They're in the parlor behind the kitchen, and Sam is thinking about threatening Dean with bodily harm if he plays "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" one more fucking time, except that it would probably not be much of a deterrent. Dean is sprawled in his favorite chair, feet on the ottoman. He looks completely relaxed in the golden afternoon light, but keeps shooting Sam little glances from under his eyelashes that are driving Sam crazy in an entirely different way than the music.

Dean was trying to get the dancing-girl fountain to run earlier, even brought up one of the water pumps from the basement to see what that might do, but he gave up once Sam convinced him the entire stone patio would need to be torn up to check on the pipes. Sam dragged him, cursing, out to the garden, where they ate lunch and lounged in the sun for a while before coming inside. They both really love spending time in the old secret garden, and Sam wonders if it has as much to do with what it has given them as with the beauty of the garden itself.

Sam lowers the volume on the record, but doesn't turn it off.

Dean doesn't protest, just smirks. "Something on your mind, Sam?"

"Actually, I was thinking - maybe we should drive down into town. See what day it is, at least. I mean, who knows how long we've been up here? Tamara should have been in touch a while ago. There could be something wrong."

"Aw, and here we are, finally relaxing." Dean's eyebrows come together and he pushes himself upright in the chair. "But I guess you're right. We'll go tomorrow. One more night won't change anything."

"Okay. Yeah, tomorrow. We can spend the morning in the garden, and then after lunch we'll drive."

If he's honest with himself, Sam is worried about leaving this place, about what it will mean for him and Dean to be back out in the world. Life is going to get even harder if they have to hide this thing between them from everyone they meet, everyone they know - no matter that the list is so short now.

Intellectually, Sam knows it's not painted right on his forehead in big neon letters. But if either one of them - especially Dean - starts to feel like it is, this could all come tumbling down like a house of cards.

To his credit, Sam does try not to think about that. Not even late in the night, when he's marking his love and need into Dean's smooth flesh like a benediction. He gives as good as he gets.

*~ *~*

As it turns out, they don't make it back to civilization before it comes to them.

They're lying in the grass in the garden, sides pressed together in a way that would seem innocent for children but is rather suspect for two grown men, when Dean goes stock-still.

"Uh, Sam..." he says in a husky whisper.

"Yeah?" And that's when Sam sees Bobby in the arched doorway, just watching them. There's no telling how long he's been there.

"Hey, Bobby!"

"Bobby, man, is that you?"

"When did you get here?"

"Did you come up with Tamara?"

Sam and Dean are talking over each other as they scramble to their feet and move toward where Bobby is still staring at them, looking about as bemused as it's possible for Bobby to look.

"Dean. Sam." He takes off his soiled baseball cap, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, and puts the cap back on. "Morning."

"We were just - "

"I don't want to know. Really." And that's when he breaks into a big smile. "But damn, it's great to see you boys!"

*~ *~*

Bobby did indeed drive up with Tamara, and the four of them gather in the front entrance, grand doors open to let in a nice fragrant breeze from the courtyard.

"Love what you've done with the place," says Tamara with a knowing wink. "It feels so light and welcoming!"

"Yeah, well, we had plenty of time." Dean's being sarcastic, and Sam elbows him good-naturedly.

"I'm so sorry about that. I tried to come back sooner, but the roads were completely washed out, down at the bottom of the hill! We couldn't even get close until now. You didn't know?"

"No, uh, we never tried taking the car out."

"But you must have done - it's been over three months!"

They're all silent for a beat, and then Dean coughs once into his hand.

"Well..." says Sam, looking at Dean. "I guess time flies. Must have had something to do with the spell."

"Huh," says Bobby suddenly. "I think we'd like to hear more about that, if you don't mind."

"Me too." Tamara nods and beams as she looks around. "Then we'll stay the night and head out of here tomorrow. The electricians should be coming in soon to start more preparations for the hotel. And I'll have to find someone from the museum to go through those boxes. I'm sorry it's all so abrupt!"

They make their way around the ground floor, Sam talking about the hunt, such as it was, and Dean pointing at things and detailing all of the work that they'd done on the house. He sounds really proud. And happy.

When Sam gets to the part about the old spell book, Bobby makes a few suggestions about its origins, and tells of a few other haunts he's heard about in the area over the years. If Bobby knows there's anything more to Sam and Dean's story here, he doesn't say a word.

When it's time to turn in for the night, Bobby takes the couch in the small kitchen parlor, but once Tamara climbs the stairs Dean offers her his room, claiming that he's just changed the sheets.

"It's cool, I'll just bunk with Sam. Not like we won't be back to sharing motel rooms anyway, soon as we hit the road."

It's all Sam can manage to keep the grin off his face before the door closes.

 

_Epilogue_

A visitor to the Keweenaw on a certain fine spring day might come to fish or to hike, to admire the many waterfalls and look-out points the region has to offer, or to explore what the local County Historical Society as well as the Visitors' Bureau calls the Copper Country Trail, with its well-preserved old buildings and historical museums and exhibits just this side of cheesy. Some of the attractions would just now be opening for the season. There might be a lot of families out in their SUVs and station wagons; it's a great place to bring the kids.

A visitor might see the same tourists throughout the day, as all newcomers tend to make the same stops. Mohawk, Copper Harbor. Eagle Harbor. Perhaps the same folks at the gas station after breakfast are in the diner at lunch. Everyone nods politely in recognition, maybe makes small talk about where they're from or where they're headed next. Some of them might be here to rekindle distant memories, to show their own kids where great-grandpa lived and worked a hundred years ago.

On a certain fine spring day, there might be a couple of guys in a window booth at the diner. One of them keeps glancing out the window at what must be his car. It's a classic, black and sleek and obviously well cared for.

He's smiling while he rubs at the red vinyl seat and marvels loudly at how the booth is made from actual oak, but looks annoyed when he notices the antique copper pots and pans on the walls. The other one looks as him fondly but not without exasperation. Their order comes - one burger with everything and one large spinach and cheese omelette, fresh fruit on the side - and they continue talking quietly between bites.

The taller guy, the one with the messy brown hair, kicks the other one under the table, but that doesn't stop his flirting with the waitress. She's an older woman with graying hair who blushes furiously. She might be blushing under the attention of such a good-lucking young man, but it could also be her confusion and lack of experience with this sort - the sort who rubs gentle circles with his thumb into another guy's wrist behind their steaming mugs of coffee.

Windows rolled down and radio blaring, their car is one of many which pass collapsed structures and proud monuments alike as they amble along the northern shore of the peninsula, maps and brochures spread out on the dash and spilling into the footwell. They listen to the mining-era ghost stories told by the tour guides, chuckling along with the rest of the group at the absurdity of most tales, but sharing meaningful looks over a few.

At the end of the day, they pick up a few beers and clink bottles in front of the sunset on Lake Superior. They watch the red-orange-purple colors meeting the deep blue water and the quietly darkening lands in the distance beyond. Anyone who really knew them might say they look happier and more relaxed than they've looked in years, but there are few left who could make that claim.

They get back on the road and head off to who knows where. They may not be sure where they're going next, but what's important now, as they drive away from the end of the world, is that they're still together.

And if they argue later about where to stop for the night or whether to drive east or west... well, that's beside the point.

_END_


End file.
